Jessica Vasquez was hungry and dehydrated but she appeared to be unharmed with the exception of some bruises she’d received when Loomis kidnapped her from a mall parking lot several days earlier. Evans and Sparks talked to Vasquez while they waited for the ambulance to take her to the hospital. She told them that Loomis had kept her in one of the dog cages without food or water for two days and never spoke to her during her ordeal. One evening, he’d drugged her and taken impressions of her teeth before returning her to the cage. This morning, he had manacled her to the chair and fitted her with a leather S &M mask with a ball gag before he went to the lab.

“I know I should feel elated, but I just feel sick and exhausted,” Evans told Maggie as they watched the ambulance carrying Vasquez disappear around the corner.

“Hey, get a grip. We saved Jessica Vasquez’s life and captured a truly evil man. You should feel proud of what we accomplished.”

“But I don’t. I just feel sad because of what those other poor souls went through.”

Sparks laid a hand on his forearm. “You’ll never save everybody, Keith. Think of all the women who are going to be safe because Loomis will be behind bars.”

“Good point, but I still feel sick about what we saw in that basement.”

“You can take a shower tonight. And I’ll buy you a drink or two after we interrogate Loomis.”

“I don’t know, Maggie…”

“Well I do. You’re too damn maudlin for someone whose team just cracked one of the biggest serial cases in D.C. history.”

“Agent Evans.”

Evans turned to find one of the lab techs approaching. He was holding a jar like those that had been found in the basement. In it was another model of a set of teeth.

“We found this. Ted Balske thought you’d like to know.”

“Where was it?”

“Hidden in the rear of Loomis’s van under a blanket.”

Evans and Sparks took a close look at the model.

“How many of these models do we have now?” Evans asked the forensic expert.

“There were four in the basement. This makes five.”

“Thanks.”

The forensic expert left to log in the model, and Evans frowned.

“What’s wrong?” Sparks asked.

“Loomis made models of the teeth of his victims for trophies.”

“Right. That’s where the PVS comes in.”

“There should be six sets of teeth, but there are only five.”

“You’re right,” Sparks said. She looked as troubled as did Evans.

“The medical examiner didn’t find any PVS in Walsh’s mouth,” Evans said. “What if none of the false teeth match Walsh?”

“What are you getting at?” Sparks asked, afraid she knew what Keith was going to say.

“We could have a copycat murder. Someone who killed Walsh then faked the Ripper’s MO. Think about it. We just figured out what the substance in the victim’s mouths is, so Walsh’s killer wouldn’t know how to fake that part of Loomis’s MO. And there’s no way he could plant a set of false teeth in Loomis’s basement because we just figured out that he’s the Ripper. We have to find out if the dental work matches every victim except Walsh.”

“The MO for Walsh’s murder was almost identical to the MO Loomis used when he killed the other victims, including evidence we held back from the press and the public,” Sparks said. “The copycat would have to have access to the case file.”

“A federal agency would have access,” Evans said, “and some federal agencies employ people who can sanitize the scene of a shooting.”

“You’re talking about Cutler’s apartment.”

Evans nodded.

“You’re beginning to sound like a Web site for conspiracy nuts.”

“I am, but sometimes there really are conspiracies. While I’m talking to Eric Loomis, why don’t you see if you can find a police report detailing what happened at Cutler’s apartment?”

Chapter Twenty-three

There was nothing friendly about the surroundings in which Eric Loomis found himself. The dull brown walls were stained, the fluorescent lighting flickered at odd moments, and the bridge chair on which he sat was cold and hard. Keith Evans wanted badly to break Loomis but he waited patiently, observing the prisoner for forty-five minutes through a two-way mirror before going into the interrogation room. The lab technician’s legs were secured to a bolt in the floor limiting his range of motion. He sat quietly at first before shifting his position more and more frequently, failing in his attempts to get comfortable and growing more agitated as the seconds ticked away.

When Evans finally entered the room the manacled prisoner looked up. The FBI agent sat on a comfortable chair on the other side of a scarred wooden table and worked hard to mask his distaste. Loomis wore an orange jail-issue jumpsuit, which was intentionally a size too small and cut into the rolls of fat at his waist and thighs. His limp, uncombed hair was oily, there were pimples on his forehead, cheeks, and chin, and the prisoner exuded an odor that reminded Evans of stale cheese. The agent wondered if his reaction to Loomis would still have been revulsion if he was meeting him for the first time under different circumstances and didn’t know what the lab technician had done in the basement of his house.

“Good evening, Mr. Loomis.”

Loomis didn’t answer.

“Do you mind if I record our conversation?” Evans asked as he placed a tape recorder on the table between them.

“I don’t care what you do.”

“Well you should. You’re in a lot of trouble.”

“We’ll see,” Loomis answered with an enigmatic smile.

“Before we talk, I’m going to give you the Miranda warnings. You probably think you know them from television or the movies but you should listen carefully anyway.”

Loomis folded his arms across his chest and looked away while Evans recited the warnings.

“Do you understand your rights, Mr. Loomis?” Evans asked when he finished.

“Do I look stupid? Of course I understand them. I have a degree in chemistry.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you’re stupid, Mr. Loomis. I’m required to ask everyone I question if they understand their rights. Not everyone has an IQ as high as yours.”

Loomis raised his head slowly until he was staring into Evans’s eyes. Then he smirked.

“What number interrogation technique is that?”

“I’m sorry?”

“‘Flatter the prisoner and gain his confidence. Make him feel that you’re on his side,’” Loomis said in a mock instructor’s voice.

Evans laughed. “That actually was a heartfelt statement. You are smart and you had us going. If you hadn’t made one small mistake we might never have caught you.”

Loomis looked down. Evans knew the prisoner was dying to know how he’d been tripped up, but he was smart enough not to take the bait.

“Before we go any further, I need to know if you want to be represented by a lawyer.”

Evans wanted to continue questioning Loomis, but Loomis’s answers would be inadmissible in court if he didn’t waive his right to counsel.

“I plan on representing myself, Agent Evans.”

“Are you sure you want to do that? Virginia and Maryland have the death penalty. What you did will qualify you for it.”

Loomis smiled. “Another clever interrogation technique. If I say anything suggesting that I know I qualify for the death penalty you can use my words as an admission.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. I just want you to understand the seriousness of your situation. Trying a death penalty case is a specialty. The government will provide you with a lawyer experienced in capital cases if you can’t afford an attorney. Even someone as intelligent as you would have trouble learning everything you’d need to know if you decide to represent yourself.”

Loomis smirked again. “I’ll take my chances.”

“If you’re sure you don’t want a lawyer?” Evans repeated so there wouldn’t be any questions later if Loomis challenged his interrogation.